


Going Through Hell (Your Heart in My Hands)

by Ceris_Malfoy



Series: Season Three Alternates [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon!Stiles, I don't know, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Rating May Change, Show level violence, Tags May Change, always-a-demon!Stiles, hinting towards something very violent, possibly murder husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason Stiles always knows things he really, really shouldn't. There's a reason why Peter respected his choice all those months ago. There's a part of Stiles he hides from everyone, even himself. </p><p>And then this Darach comes and steals the center of his world right out from under him, and nothing will ever be the same.</p><p>Especially not for Peter Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Through Hell (Your Heart in My Hands)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit weird. Read it at your own risk. My mythology is all over the place. I literally wrote this in ten minutes. I have no clue. I'm sorry.

Lydia tries to smile, fails miserably, a quick tightening of her lips into something that screams fear.

 _They’re just children_ , Stiles thinks. It’s not the first time he’s thought that. He doesn’t lump himself in that thought. He likes playacting the normal human child, naïve and more than a bit cocksure the way children are, but he hasn’t been a child for a long, long time.

Unlike Allison and Scott, he’s going into this knowing full well the consequences of his actions. He knows what he is giving up, he knows what he is sacrificing. He knows that chances are good that he won’t come back the same, if at all.

His hand spasms against the cold metal of his father’s badge. He thinks of the man, one John Stilinski, remembers why he'd chosen him. It is worth it.

Stiles doesn’t feel the ice-cold of the water. He’s too numb with grief, too numb with rage. _If I were a wolf_ , he thinks, but no. If he had taken Peter’s offer, there's no telling what he would have changed into, if he would have changed at all. And even if he had turned, it would have made no difference, not with this. If he were a werewolf, he’d be just as vulnerable and just as scared as he is now. Stiles wants to rip and rend the world around him, but he doesn’t need to be a wolf to do that. He breathes deeply one last time, then allows Lydia to push him under.

 _I’ll find you, bitch_ , he swears. _And when I do_ ….

One thing most supernaturals tended to forget: most times the monster you truly needed to fear was simply someone with nothing else left to lose.

=

Being dead is a natural state of being. It is the end of every story, no matter how tragic, no matter how happy. Dead is dead is dead is dead.

Coming back to life, on the other hand, now that’s were things got tricky.

Peter’s managed it, but not without losing a part of himself in the process.

He’s not alive, not truly, but neither is he dead. He’s not a werewolf, not truly, but he isn’t human either. To be honest, he’s not sure what he is, but he knows there’s a part of him that still lingers in between.

He knows, because when he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he is in the white room.

Only this night, when he finally collapses into his bed, he is not alone.

=

Stiles walks out of the forest and into a white room, calm and eerily focused.

His rage is cold and settled, an ache within his bones and an itch within his fingers. He knows where the Nemeton is. He knows where Jennifer will be. He bares his teeth, wants to howl his coming victory like the wolf he is not, but is in the same respect. Once a predator, always a predator, it seems.

“Stiles.”

He turns, facing the stump of the Nemeton. He cocks his head, watching as the older man stands up, studying the surprisingly genuine look of confusion on his face.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks him.

He bares his teeth again. “Why did I resist joining your fight, Peter?” he asks in answer. “For what reason did I reject your offer?”

Peter’s eyes flash not that darling electric blue, but rather the deep crimson of an alpha. “For Scott.”

Stiles sneers at the simplicity of the answer. It is correct, in a fashion, but also very much not. “For what was _mine_ ,” he corrects. “And now here’s another who’s taken my _father_ , the last of my _family_ , and she thinks she’ll get away with it.”

“This is the land of the dead, Stiles,” Peter says, crimson light fading. “She already has.”

=

Peter feels a small edge of grief, knowing that for Stiles, it is already too late. Spark though the boy may be, he is nowhere near powerful enough to drag himself out of this place.

But then Stiles laughs, the cold of death lingering in every note, the warm amber of his eyes fading as a black void stares back at Peter, even as the boy lunges forward, long, delicate fingers finding purchase in his chest as he digs and digs and digs, deeper and deeper, until his hands clasp about Peter's heart.

“I could shred you to pieces, and nothing you do could stop me,” the boy whispers. “I could ruin everything you are, and you would _let_ me.” Stiles lifts his gaze from the bloody heart in his hands and meets his gaze. “I _know_ you. You offer, but do not take, not from me. You, I see. Finally, I _see_.” Stiles smiles at him. Squeezes his heart. “I see _you_ , Peter.”

And then he rips it out.

=

Peter wakes with a shrill scream, the echoes of Stiles’ laughter ringing in his ears.

=

Stiles tracks them, Peter and Jennifer both.

Her dad is safe, now. He has time. Content in the knowledge that his only remaining mortal kin is stable and in good hands, he can devote everything he is to shredding what remains of the threat.

Jennifer is weak, broken. But Stiles is not stupid. Leave a threat like that alive, and it will grow strong again. And once strong enough, it will come back.

They always come back.

So he follows them. Tracks Peter who is tracking Jennifer.

He listens. Listens to Jennifer, listens to Peter.

“No,” he says, when Peter goes to slit her throat.

Peter looks at him, and there is fear behind his eyes, fear in the way he immediately stops and backs away from Jennifer.

He _knows_.

Stiles hums as he steps lightly around the stump, where Jennifer is gurgling. She’s talking, trying to justify what she’s done and thanking Stiles for stopping Peter, for allowing her to live.

Stiles laughs. “Oh honey,” he says. “If you think I’m going to allow you to live, you’re even crazier than I thought.” He bends down over her. Holds up the blunt, rusty knife. “I was going to do this all slow and agonizing, but I have a much better idea know that Peter’s here.”

He beckons the werewolf closer. Smiles sweetly when he comes. “I’ll need your strength to rip open her rib cage,” he says.

They both stare at her. Stiles hums again and says nothing else, bouncing a little on his toes.

Jennifer’s mouth keeps working like she’s trying to says something, but no words or sounds escape. It’s fine, because Stiles wouldn’t listen anyway.

Finally Peter shrugs and does as he asked him, digging in with his claws to grab at individual ribs and pull them back, not flinching even a little as Jennifer screams with each brittle snap. The last thing he breaks is the breast bone, a swift snap to remove most of it from Stiles’ gaze.

“Thank you, Peter,” he says.

And then he grabs the heart.

Peter twitches beside at his side, a near inaudible whine escaping his throat.

Stiles smiles at him, even as he grips the heart firmly and stands, using his momentum to rip it right out of Jennifer’s chest. He keeps smiling, even as he holds out the heart. “A gift,” he intones softly. Peter reaches out slowly and takes the heart in his own hands, and then stares at it bemusedly. 

"Eat it," Stiles says. Knows his eyes are blacker than pitch, knows his shadow would show wings and horns were there much light by which to see. 

He smiles when Peter does, watching him all the while, beta-blue bleeding into alpha-red.


End file.
